


Candles and Challah

by Eli (AisukuriMuStudio)



Category: Tales of Zestiria
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Baking, F/F, Hanukkah, Jewish Holidays, Jewish Mikleo, Jewish Sorey, Judaism, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Religion, Road Trips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-21
Updated: 2017-12-21
Packaged: 2019-02-17 16:14:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13080567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AisukuriMuStudio/pseuds/Eli
Summary: Mikleo is away from Elysia during Hanukkah, and celebrating with the friends he made at Ladylake University just isn't quite the same. In fact it's depressing, and only adds to the stress of finals. At first he tries to make do with only Skyping Sorey when he can, but maybe his friends can pull through for him.





	Candles and Challah

**Author's Note:**

> Chanukah sameach, everyone!! This is a bit late as the last night of Hanukkah is tonight, but I really wanted to share this. During this time of year, there are tons of Xmas fics left and right. So I wanted to share the joy of Judaism with Sorey and Mikleo and company. I hope y'all have as much fun reading this as I had writing it!
> 
> Please note that if you aren't super familiar with the practices of Chanukah and of Judaism in general, some of the vocabulary might not make sense. I didn't write this intending to explain it to Christians or other non-Jewish people, just to share the holiday with characters I adore and strongly relate to. However, everything should be pretty self-explanatory. The exception to this is that I'm measuring the timeline with "nights" occurring first, so "night 1 -> day 1 -> night 2." That's the Jewish way!
> 
> This topic is near and dear to my heart. I hope you all enjoy it!

**Night 1**

Mikleo lights the first candle with the help of the shamash, and he recites the prayers he knows by heart:

“Lehadlik ner shel Chanukah. She’asah nissim. Schehecheyanu.”

And just like that, the first night has begun.

Mikleo closes his eyes and sings. He's a bit hesitant, unsure — he's never sung the Ma’Oz Tzur alone before, especially in an environment where people who aren't Jewish might overhear him —  and it shows in the way his notes don't quite carry, don't quite have the full body they should. It doesn’t sound _right_ singing it alone; there should be a chorus of family and friends, and instead, it’s just one voice.

It’s just him.

As the song concludes, Mikleo opens his eyes and looks out his dormitory window. He scans the other windows that are visible from his own. It looks as though his is the only one with a hanukkiyah.

He hadn't been anticipating this. He'd known going in that choosing a secular school like Ladylake University would mean fewer people like him, but looking out at the other buildings, he feels frighteningly alone. Isolated.

He looks up to the red-tinted horizon. The sun has almost finished setting, but even still, there’s not a star in the sky. Mikleo supposes that in a place as populous as Ladylake, there wouldn’t be a way for him to see the stars even if the moon was out.

Gramps probably invited the entire village over for Chanukah dinner. He’s probably making challah tonight too, in addition to latkes. Mikleo could almost smell the sufganiyot Gramps would be making for dessert. Sometimes Gramps recruits some of the others to help him cook, like Kyme and Natalie, but more often than not they volunteer. Mikleo remembers one year, when they were younger, Gramps’s kitchen was so busy that he and Sorey couldn’t even fit without risking being trampled on.

Is Sorey among those cooking, now? Is he learning the intricacies of Gramps’s haphazard challah recipe, or the delicate methods of making the dough for the sufganiyot? Would Mikleo miss being able to try Sorey’s first hand at them?

_Oh, Sorey._ Mikleo's thumb, without conscious will, rubs the band around his left ring finger. _I miss you._

**Night 2**

“Mikleo, Mikleo, Mikleo!” Sorey's voice over the Skype call is almost right, but not quite; it’s too heavily processed and it makes Mikleo's heart ache for the real thing, despite how excited he is. Sorey points to his own screen as if Mikleo can tell what he’s pointing at. “You’ve got your hanukkiyah on display!”

Mikleo shrugs, not quite sure what the achievement is. “And?” he asks, and he gestures to his own screen. “Your hanukkiyah’s on display, too.”

It’s a beautiful one, too. Sorey’s had it for years, a hand-me-down from his mother; it is golden and antique, inscribed in Hebrew. Mikleo remembers when they used to light their hanukkiyot together; him, Sorey, and Gramps all would.

“Yeah!” Sorey replies, laughing a bit as he does. “But it’s almost like we’re lighting ours _together!_ Come on, that’s kind of cool!”

_Almost_. Mikleo can’t help but latch onto that word. Almost isn’t the same. It’s not the same as being in person, lighting hanukkiyot with the same breath. It’s not the same as using the same flame to light each other’s shamash, just because you can, just because it’s like sharing warmth. Just because it’s like every hanukkiyah is then lit with the very same flame and ties them all together.

Mikleo nods, but it doesn’t feel sincere. “Yeah,” he says. “It kind of is.” It’s _kind of_ almost, it’s _kind of_ cool. It’s not really.

Sorey’s expression changes, and Mikleo immediately wishes he’d responded more enthusiastically. “What’s wrong?” Sorey asks, a frown on his face. “Mikleo, you seem kind of sad. You were really excited for Chanukah.”

He was. Mikleo’s eager for every holiday, really; any chance he has to show off his religion, he takes it, simply because he’s proud of it. But still, something about this feels more bittersweet than he thought it would be.

“I just —” Mikleo’s fingers curl into his palms, too tight. He doesn’t even know where to begin. “I just… I miss you.” It strikes him how true those words are; how _homesick_ he really is. As eager as Mikleo is to celebrate, the joy of celebrating with _family_ — that’s what he enjoys the most.

It’s hard to be away, especially from the one he loves.

“I know.” Sorey lets out a small sigh, and Mikleo glances to his face in the camera. Sorey looks just as distraught as Mikleo does now. “I miss you too, Mikleo. But you’re doing good at Ladylake; I want you to be happy there, even if we don’t get to see each other much.”

“I don’t care about _seeing_ you.” Without thinking, Mikleo’s left hand reaches for the image of Sorey on his screen, pressing his fingers to it as if he could push through and hold him. But he can’t. “I just wish I could _be_ with you.”

Sorey’s brow furrows. “...yeah,” he finally says. “I wish that, too.”

Mikleo’s eyes water, but he blinks it away, rubbing his eyes. “Mikleo—” Sorey starts to say, but Mikleo shakes his head.

“No,” he says, and he lets out a small laugh. “I’m not going to be sad about this. You’re right, I’m doing _good_ here, and I should be happy.”

“That’s not what I said,” Sorey replies. “I said I _want_ you to be happy. There’s a difference. If you’re not, Mikleo, then…”

Mikleo drops his hand and he sighs. “I’ll get over it.” He looks at Sorey’s form on the screen and wishes he could see _all_ of him; not just a pixelated, two-dimensional image from the waist-up. “Will you go over some of the Torah with me? I don’t have anyone to discuss it with here, and it’d be a definite pick-me-up.”

Mikleo would very much enjoy going over the book with someone else; someone else he could argue, debate, philosophize with. Sorey is the perfect person for that. Sorey is as fiercely passionate about Torah study as he is about history, and Mikleo _loves_ it.

“Oh, sure!” Sorey’s face lights up as he picks up his softcover from off-screen; multiple tabs peek out from every page of it, so much that there are certainly more tabs than there are pages. “Let’s see, what’s today’s passage…?” He murmurs as he flips it open about halfway through.

Mikleo can’t help but chuckle at that image, as he pulls out his own copy. It’s not quite as tabbed as Sorey’s, but he has next to it a three-subject notebook that’s nearly filled to the brim with his thoughts. Subsequent readings of the Torah have necessitated sticky notes as a way to add thoughts, which Mikleo wishes he had foreseen the first time.

He announces the book they’re reading from and takes the time to open his notebook to that section, and he can’t help but think that this isn’t so bad. They’re not in person, but this is the next best thing.

**Night 3**

Mikleo waits to light the hanukkiyah until his friends arrive. It’s final exam season, which means they’re all having one last study session before shit hits the fan. None of them are happy about it, but Mikleo is glad to see that they all come prepared.

Edna comes without her typical dainty outfit, opting out of makeup and sundresses for a long-sleeved turtleneck and khaki pants. She keeps a touch of her signature flair with her brother’s gloves. Lailah wears her usual armor, a layer of foundation and blush and perfectly-applied mascara, hair up in a high ponytail and hair sprayed to stay in place. Her jeans are work jeans rather than hip-huggers, and the blouse leaves the top button undone. Rose comes in her steel-toed boots and overalls, plaid flannel underneath, and her own hair in a small ponytail just to keep the bangs out of her eyes. She insists it’s a “look,” but Mikleo has never understood it.

“Thank you for having us over,” Lailah says as she places her messenger bag, covered in various pins, on the table in the center of the apartment. “I know this may be a bit of an intrusion, but we do appreciate it.”

Rose nods as she drops her Jansport in her chair without any pretense. “Yeah, for real,” she says, and a grin covers her face. “It’s holy and all that tonight, isn’t it?”

Mikleo shrugs as he takes his usual seat, his own backpack next to the foot of his chair. “It is,” he replies. “But it’s not like Yom Kippur. I’m not obligated to fast, or to not work.”

Edna hefts a small sigh. On the ground next to her seat, she leaves a flower-print backpack; on the table, she sets a brown paper bag. “Thanks for waiting,” she says as she turns toward the hanukkiyah. “Let’s do this. You know Rock of Ages, don’t you?”

Mikleo scoffs at her, but he can’t quite keep the grin off his face. “Of course I know the Ma’Oz Tzur. Do _you_ remember the blessings?”

“What am I, _five_?” Edna shoots back, and though she’s not smiling, Mikleo can tell she’s enjoying herself, too.

Edna lights the shamash and uses it for the hanukkiyah. Together they say the blessings: “Lehadlik ner shel Chanukah. She’asah nissim.”

Mikleo likes this a lot better. Edna doesn’t live on campus, so it’s easy to feel alone when Mikleo lights his hanukkiyah. Having her present during this makes him already feel better; makes him feel a bit more like he’s connected to something bigger than himself.

He thought he’d be self-conscious singing the Ma’Oz Tzur in front of their friends, but it comes easy. Almost like he’s proud of something. It helps that Edna sings like she’s got something to prove, like she’s going to fight someone if they tell her to shut up. (And honestly, she probably would.)

When they’ve finished, Edna turns to him. “You sing like you forget how it goes,” she says, her voice almost accusing, and Mikleo rolls his eyes.

“Sorry I don’t sing like I’ve got a megaphone stuck in my throat,” he retorts.

Most people might giggle; Edna just smirks. Mikleo’s never heard her laugh before, and he’s pretty sure she doesn’t know how. “How’s the nerd doing, by the way?” she asks as she returns to the table.

“The—” Mikleo almost gets the chance to ask who she’s talking about, but before he can, Lailah and Rose’s eyes both light up, and Mikleo knows immediately.

“Sorey!” Rose says with a laugh and a clap of her hands. “I’ve missed that kid! You need to bring him around more often!” Mikleo knows she misses him. They met once while Sorey helped Mikleo move in, exchanged Facebook information, and the two of them single-handedly formed the Gay and Lesbian Solidarity Movement.

(Okay, they didn’t, but they may as well have.)

“Sorey is celebrating too, is he not?” Lailah asks, a fond smile on her face. Mikleo wonders if she ever wears that expression when talking about him. “Has he been cooking for the holiday? I remember you were hoping you’d get to taste it.”

Mikleo’s chest swells with emotion; he almost feels as though he’s being suffocated by it. When he doesn’t respond immediately, all eyes turn to him — even Edna, who pretends she’s the personification of apathy at every opportunity.

“Um,” Mikleo says, and then he laughs. “I don’t … know. We Skyped last night, but I didn’t ask him.” And Sorey hadn’t mentioned it. Mikleo hopes that means Sorey hasn’t, rather than Sorey has and didn’t think to tell him.

“Oh,” Lailah says, sobering. “That’s unfortunate.”

Rose scoffs. “You two are _basically_ married, but you _didn’t ask him?_ Don’t you know the meaning of _communication?_ ” Lailah shoots Rose a look, but Rose rolls her eyes. “I mean, I guess my opinion means fuck-all since I’m single, but _geez_ , Mikleo; Sorey probably has no clue you want to taste his cooking!”

“Or maybe he does,” Edna says, and the way her eyes stay on him is eerie; the same way a predator eyes her prey. “Maybe he’s not bringing it up because he hopes you will. He seems like that kind of soft-headed fool.”

“Hey, maybe _don’t_ insult my man,” Mikleo says, as if it’s a suggestion rather than a command. “I haven’t seen him in person since the semester started, and... “ Irritation crosses his face. “I’d really, _really_ rather not talk about this right now. We came here to study, not to talk about my relationship.”

“Finally.” Edna turns her head away from him at long last and plops down into her seat. “I brought sufganiyot.”

“ _What!_ ” Mikleo is immediately at the table, anxiety all but shoved from his head. The change in subject is a welcome one, even if he can hardly believe it. “Edna, why didn’t you _say so_ until now!”

“It’s for everyone, dummy,” Edna mutters as she pulls a plastic container out of the paper bag. “Not just us. It’s from my brother’s bakery.”

“It’s from Reaper’s Dozen?” Lailah gasps, excitement on her face too. “Oh, goodness! I’ve never had this, um — this! But if Eizen and Zaveid made it, I’m sure it’s delicious!”

Rose leans over the table to get a better look, and she hums as she does. “It’s like jelly doughnuts or something, right? Damn, I’m hungry!”

“We can only eat them when we’re done with at least half of the review,” Edna says, and she puts the container back in the bag.

“ _What._ ” Mikleo says again, echoing the sentiment of the entire group.

Edna smirks, definitely pleased with herself. “Think of it as… _motivation_ ,” she says, a tone of contentment in her voice.

Sadistic though Edna is, when they finally get to try them an hour and a half later, Mikleo can’t help but think that Sorey’s would be better.

**Night 4**

Mikleo is surprised when Edna shows up at his door just after sundown. She’s dressed in her usual fashion this time; she’s got on a white sundress over a black turtleneck, dark tights, and boots that definitely belong to her brother. Gloves, too. (Does Eizen just let her take them, he wonders, or does Edna sneak them away to prove something to him?)

“Here,” Edna says as she shoves an envelope into his chest. He stumbles backward a bit at the sheer force of it, hands coming up reflexively to grab it. It’s a manilla envelope, the kind that might be mailed. He can feel something inside of it, a few round items, and he furrows his brow as he looks at her.

“Edna—”

“Just take it,” she says and she turns away from him. From the way her fingers curl around the handle of her umbrella, she probably has the urge to hide behind it. A shame it won’t open in the hallway. “Before I change my mind.”

Mikleo glances down at the envelope in his arms again, holding it up. He gives it a shake and something shuffles on the inside; multiple somethings, all shuffling against each other.

“Chanukah sameach,” Edna mutters, and then without waiting for a reply she makes her way down the hall.

Mikleo looks after her, replying in kind, “Chag sameach.” He closes the door and makes his way to his desk, setting the envelope down and taking a seat as he considers the package.

After all, why would Edna bring him something? She said _‘Chanukah sameach’_ as if it’s some kind of _Hannukah gift_ — but Edna’s not the type to give _gifts_. It must be a prank; it has to be. Maybe there’s confetti in here that will explode when he opens it. They have a name for those, don’t they? Glitter bombs, isn’t that it?

Mikleo picks up the envelope and pulls it to the side of his desk, just in case, because he doesn’t want to be pulling glitter or confetti or any other kind of atrocity out of his textbooks for weeks to come. He inhales deeply, exhales, and then he opens it.

… Nothing comes out. Mikleo’s shoulders droop and, although he’s relieved, he almost feels a bit disappointed, too.

But when he looks inside, he finds coins. _Coins_? No — as he reaches inside and pulls them out, he realizes they’re not real coins, but chocolate. It’s Hanukkah gelt.

As if he’s a _child!_ As if he even has anyone to play dreidel with! As if —

Mikleo’s shoulders crumple and he pulls the envelope in close to his chest. It’s too close to home. He really doesn’t need to be reminded of the all the times he’s played dreidel with Sorey and the others in Elysia; just last year, he and Sorey were teaching some of the younger kids how to play.

Sorey had been so excited. “For some of them, it’s their first time learning the Hebrew,” he’d said, eyes sparkling in the way that they always did when he was swept away. Mikleo privately thought his eyes resembled a sunrise when he was like that, and his face, the early morning sky: full of hope and wonder. “We’re getting to be a _part_ of that first experience, Mikleo! Isn’t that _wonderful_!”

It was.

Mikleo aches with homesickness. He sets the _gelt_ on the desk, careful not to ruin them. He almost tosses the envelope aside too, but then he notices a piece of paper tucked inside. He frowns and pulls it out, and it’s written in handwriting that’s definitely not Edna’s. The first few lines read: ‘ _Ingredients: 1 and ⅔ cups flour, vanilla extract, salt, 1 whole egg_ …’

His eyes widen and he skims the rest of it. It can’t be. It _is_. It’s a recipe for sufganiyot. At the very bottom, in the same scribbled handwriting, reads:

_‘I’ve tweaked the secret ingredient for the sake of my bakery, but I trust you understand. This was Edna’s idea. She said you like to cook. She hoped it would provide you some comfort while you’re away from home, and I hope it does, too._ _—Eizen’_

Mikleo looks over the recipe again in its entirety, and he repeats it aloud. More than once. Even though he just ate sufganiyot yesterday, this recipe does give him comfort. All he can think of is how he and Sorey might get the chance to cook this together.

It’s a silly thought, nothing more than concept art for an unfinished product: the two of them going over the recipe, making it time and time again, trying to figure out what Eizen’s real “secret ingredient” is. Then they would try to make it even better. Mikleo recognizes the flaw before he’s even finished processing the idea, of course: Sorey’s never had Eizen’s sufganiyot, so it’d be impossible for him to try and figure it out.

Damn it. Mikleo lets out an irritated sigh. He doesn’t have time to be thinking about this; finals are tomorrow and the day after. But … his eyes drift to his cell phone, attached to a charger and resting on the desk.

But you know, maybe he could just send Sorey a text and ask what he thinks about the recipe. He reaches for his phone and unlocks it, prepared to take a photo, but before he can even open his camera app, a text message pops up on his screen:

_Thinking of you~!_ Followed by a series of kiss, heart-eyed, thumbs-up emojis and some other heart-shaped ones. _Good luck tomorrow, you’re going to kick butt in those exams!_ A winky-face.

Warmth swells up in Mikleo’s chest and he can’t help the grin that slides across his face. Sorey’s the best person in his life right now, and he’s not even present. Mikleo’s thumb slides across the band around his ring finger without even thinking about it.

You know, he’s not really that worried about exams, anyway.

**Night 5**

Three down, two to go. Mikleo sips on a styrofoam cup of black coffee in the library, flipping over his notes for tomorrow's exams. He's not stressed, but he knows refreshing himself won't hurt, and he has an hour or two to kill before sundown.

It's also a way to put the homesickness out of his mind. There will be plenty of time for that when Sorey calls to tonight — he hasn't said he will, but Sorey likes to ask about how Mikleo thinks his tests went, which is rather sweet of him.  

But Mikleo will be alone to light the hanukkiyah. Again.

He tells himself to _focus,_ but his mind wanders. He glances around what he can see of the first floor. He's surrounded by students flipping furiously through their notes or textbooks. Most of them are in groups, and Mikleo wonders how many of them will miss the company when they've parted ways.

The silence is not complete, but there's something companionable in the ambient conversations around him.

Then Mikleo spots someone enter through the front doors, someone who shouldn't be here: a tall, dark-skinned man with long, platinum-blond hair, the tips of which are a faded bluish-green color. He hasn't redyed them in years; he stopped dying them at least a year before his wedding, which was a year and a half ago. Atop his head he wears a small, round kippah.

Zaveid’s scanning the area. When his gaze turns Mikleo's way, he ducks, but it's too late. He knows it's too late; if Zaveid senses someone's eyes on him, he can pinpoint their exact location like some can sense ghosts.

“Hey, Mikleo!” Zaveid is loud enough that the dialogue dies down, disturbed by something greater than it. Mikleo grimaces and looks up as the man comes to his side; he supposes he didn't exactly have much to hide behind, anyway. “I thought I'd find you here.”

“Hello, Zaveid,” Mikleo replies. He starts gathering his things, as it's evident he won't be able to get anything more done. “Didn't you graduate nearly a decade ago? What are you doing on campus again?”

Zaveid snorts like Mikleo just told a joke, and not like he just asked a genuine question. “But where else would I go to find my favorite married man?” He asks, still projecting like he’s trying to speak from him across the room, as if he’s ignorant of the fact he’s close enough to reach out and touch him.

“We’re not married,” Mikleo mumbles, but his face is burning, and his fingers fumble with the zipper on his backpack. “We exchanged rings, but these are cheap ones. And we didn’t do a ceremony or a reception or break the glass or dance the horah—”

“You _exchanged rings,”_ Zaveid interrupts. His eyes bear into Mikleo like he’s caught him in some kind of lie, despite the fact that everything Mikleo’s said in this conversation has been cold hard truth. “You’re _basically_ married. Now, a birdie told me you’re having problems with the hubby?”

For a moment Zaveid’s insistence at their married status fills Mikleo with a light-headed joy, the feeling of walking on rainbows, surrounded by butterflies. Then Zaveid asks that question, though he at least lowers his voice to do it, and that rainbow disintegrates like a slug in salt, insects scattering. Mikleo scowls and yanks the zipper shut.

“Who told you that?” he demands as he gets to his feet, slinging his bag over his shoulder. “Rose?” She’d been the one insisting on ‘communication’ the other night.

“Mikleo, son, you can talk to me!” Zaveid dogs his footsteps as Mikleo threads through the tables and shelves toward the exit. He’s not yelling any more, but he’s certainly not making an effort to staying quiet, either. “Think of me as your older, more experienced, half-Jewish uncle!”

“You’re not old enough to be my uncle, and you’d be _fully_ Jewish if you’d just convert already,” Mikleo shoots back, his voice jagged with irritation. Zaveid’s _done_ everything already: he’s celebrated every holiday, been attending shul every week, been keeping a kosher kitchen and eating strictly kosher — he’s even studied with a sponsoring rabbi. The only thing he hasn’t done is in present himself before the beit din and bathe in the waters if the mikveh.

Zaveid scoffs, but his steps don’t falter. “Right — not that that’s any of your _business_ —”

“And _this_ isn’t any of _yours_ ,” Mikleo snaps. He knows he’s probably touched a sensitive nerve, because really, it’s _not_ any of his business. And they aren’t even having _problems_ , anyway!

They exit into the library courtyard, and Mikleo pauses to squint at the horizon. The sun is closer to setting than he thought it was, so maybe it was a good thing Zaveid came to bother him. He wants to have everything ready by the time Sorey calls.

“Look,” Zaveid says, and he’s speaking that Zaveid way where he’s choosing his words deliberately, but trying to maintain an air of nonchalance. Mikleo’s been able to see right through that since the first time Zaveid tried it on him, when Mikleo had been stressed out of his gourd about telling his teachers about how he wouldn’t be in class for Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur.

(That had been a nightmare; Zaveid had helped by stuffing his face with Reaper’s Dozen challah and telling him not to _request_ it, just to _tell them_. And he did it the way Zaveid said, over email of course, and they’d all been accommodating, but he’d been so anxious doing it that he’d nearly vomited the bread Zaveid had just been kind enough to feed him.)

“I just think it’s _Hanukkah_ , man.” Zaveid sniffs, and he puts his hand on Mikleo’s shoulder. He squeezes him, and Mikleo doesn’t quite know what to do about that contact. “Festival of Lights and all that crap. It’s not a great time for tension between loved ones.”

Mikleo frowns, and he stares down at his feet. It’s not snowing here in Ladylake. He kind of wishes it was, like it does in Elysia during this season. “ … Right.” He grumbles, reluctant to concede anything to Zaveid, who’s no doubt going to use it to push his nose in further.

“Talk to him,” Zaveid says, and his voice is so sincere that Mikleo’s gaze picks up. Zaveid’s looking at him now with familiarity, like he’s reminded of something, though Mikleo has no idea what. “Trust me. Just tell him what you’re thinking, and I’m sure he’ll be glad for it. He can’t help fix something if he doesn’t know anything’s wrong.”

Mikleo wants to object to that, but he also knows Sorey. Sorey would probably _actually_ be glad that Mikleo told him something was wrong. Mikleo just doesn’t want to bring up things that can’t really be fixed.

“Besides,” Zaveid adds with a small chuckle. “You can kvetch every once in a while, you know?”

“I’ll try,” he finally mutters. He’s not quite sure how he feels about agreeing to this, but Zaveid’s hand leaves his shoulder and instead slaps his back.

“That’s the spirit,” Zaveid says, and this time if that nonchalant persona is fake, Mikleo can’t tell. Zaveid’s grinning like an idiot, and he waves his hand. “How about this: I’ll give you tonight and tomorrow night to gather up the courage to _talk_ to your husband. But then Shabbat night, how about you come over and celebrate with Eizen and Edna and me after shul? We don’t do a whole lot, but I’d bet you’d feel good to have a bunch of Jewish folk around ya.”

Mikleo’s surprised by how soft Zaveid is being. He’s clearly trying to act like this isn’t a huge thing, since Edna invited Mikleo over for the other holidays this semester, but it’s _different_ coming from Zaveid. “S-sure,” he says, and he realizes he’s smiling. “Yeah, Zaveid. If I’m not going to get in your way.”

“Might get in Edna’s!” Zaveid says, nearly snorting with laughter as he does. That makes Mikleo chuckle, but he feels rather warm.

Once he makes it to Shabbat night, it’ll fly by quickly. Winter break will be upon them, though Mikleo won’t be able to be home in time for a night of Chanukah, but he’ll at least be able to see Sorey and Gramps again.

Well, first he has to have that conversation with Sorey. Anxiety knots his stomach, but he can do it. Absolutely, he can do that.

It’s just talking, and he and Sorey do that nearly every day.

Just talking.

**Night 6**

“Oy! Are you even paying attention?!”

Sorey lets out a strangled cry as Gramps hits his forehead with his pipe. That thing’s weightier than it looks, and every time he’s been smacked with it, it’s been just enough to bruise. Sorey pouts as he rubs his brow, glancing over at Gramps. “Sorry,” he mumbles, and he looks back at the dough in front of him. Oh — crap, wait, now he’s got flour all over his face. He sighs, shoulders slumping, and reaches for the dough. Gramps has already started braiding his dough, and he doesn’t want to get behind because of some moping.

Gramps snatches his wrist before he can touch it. “You’re insulting the both of us by trying to act like nothing’s wrong,” he says, and his voice is gruff. It’s always gruff, but it’s especially so when he’s scolding, and right now Sorey knows by tone alone that he’s being scolded. “Do you think you can really _feel_ the density of the challah? Do you think you’re able to even braid it _accurately_? No, I know you don’t think that, because you’re not _thinking_ about the challah. You’re focusing on something else.”

Sorey bows his head, definitely cowed. Gramps has always been able to read him. Well, so has Mikleo, so maybe Sorey just wears his heart on his sleeve more than he’s trying to. “Yeah,” he mutters, and he sets the dough down. Gramps lets go of his wrist, leaving a floury handprint behind. “You’re right, Gramps. I really want to have this down by the time Mikleo comes back, so he’s got something _good_ to eat, but…”

Sorey doesn’t quite know where to go from there. Gramps doesn’t say anything, though; he leans back, takes another drag from his pipe, and he turns his head to blow the smoke away from the challah. Every day before he cooks, Gramps gets onto a stepstool and removes the batteries from the fire alarm. It’s so that way he can smoke while he cooks, but Sorey isn’t sure that’s really a great idea. He’s brought it up before, but Gramps has just shrugged him off; Sorey’s pretty sure Mikleo got his stubbornness from him.

“I don’t know,” Sorey finally says, sighing. “Last night, I talked to Mikleo, and I’ve been thinking about it since.”

“I’ve noticed you’ve been wandering around all foggy-eyed,” Gramps replies, and Sorey wonders why he even decided to let Sorey try to make challah if he noticed it. “What happened?”

“He just talked about how sad he was,” Sorey answers, frowning down at the dough. “And how he really wanted to be the first to try my challah. I felt really bad because I couldn’t tell him that he would be, because _you’ve_ been here to taste it and tell me what I did either wrong or right, and I think I made it worse, even though I want Mikleo to be the first one _other_ than you to try it, I just want the challah to actually be _good_ and not a complete mess, but I don’t think I realized Mikleo likes being part of the mistakes too, not just the final product, and —”

“Breathe,” Gramps says, and when Sorey inhales he realizes he’s started to cry. He sniffs and reaches up to wipe at his face, until he remembers he still as flour on his hands, and instead he fists them to keep himself from being tempted to touch his face again. It’s not fair; he should’ve _known_ this by now, and he _didn’t_. Crying isn’t going to solve anything! He’s got to figure out how to work around this!

Gramps lets out a small sigh. “How much of that did you explain to him?”

“Huh?” Sorey blinks as he looks at Gramps, who’s shorter than him but somehow feels _taller_. “Um, I — I think I said I was sorry he wasn’t the first. And that I was sorry I hadn’t mentioned it yet, but that was cuz I’d wanted it to be a surprise, but I didn’t say that part. And I said I just wanted to make sure he’d like it. And he kind of seemed even sadder, and he said it was okay so long as he got to try it, but I don’t think that’s really true. And I tried to mention that to him, like, I tried to say I didn’t think he was telling the truth, but he said it would have to be, and…”

“Breathe,” Gramps says again, and Sorey obeys. “You don’t think that if you told him _I_ was the only one who tried it, it might ease him? That you hadn’t brought it up to him _because_ you’d wanted it to be a pleasant surprise for him? Convey your _motivations_ behind your actions, Sorey; explain to him your intentions. That will no doubt do him good.”

Sorey hums for a moment. He knows Gramps is right, but if he brings it up again, is that going to make Mikleo’s anxiety about it worse? His breath hitches and he decides, _oh, whatever_ , and he reaches up and wipes tears away from his cheeks anyway, though he tries not to get any flour actually in his eyes.

“You think…” Sorey hiccups, and he wonders if Gramps is going to say he’s being stupid for asking this, but he asks it anyway. “You think he still loves me after this?” Because what if Mikleo thinks Sorey should have been more considerate, what if he thinks Sorey should’ve asked him first, what if he thinks Sorey betrayed him somehow and —

Gramps hits him with the pipe again, but it’s a lighter touch, almost just a pat. Sorey blinks tears out of his eyes again and he refocuses his gaze on him, surprised to see something fond in his eyes.

“I’ve never seen anyone more in love than the two of you, and if I know my grandson, he’s not going to let something as trivial as this get in the way,” Gramps says. Sorey’s heart lifts, and he smiles at Gramps, suddenly glad he spoke to him. Then Gramps gestures with his head toward the counter. “Come on now. Back to it.”

Sorey chuckles a bit, but he nods and turns back to the dough. It almost sings in his hands, like it missed him, and Sorey recognizes a mistake right away; he hasn’t beat it well enough. He laughs a bit at himself and he looks to Gramps. “Should I punch this some more and let it rise again?” He’s not quite sure how to correct this, as an amateur bread baker, but Gramps smiles at him like he’s proud anyway.

“Let’s try it and see how it turns out, shall we?” Gramps says, and Sorey laughs. It’s going to probably have a different consistency than it should, but okay, fine, they’ll ‘try it.’

He’s a bit jealous of Mikleo; he wishes Gramps was his. Sorey glances to the other counter, where his ring sits mercifully free of flour, and wishes he could hold it.

Someday, Zenrus _will_ be his grandfather. Gramps is such a strong presence in the community that all the kids call him that, and most of the young adults, too, even those not related to him. And Sorey’s one of those, not related by blood, but one day he’ll be related through marriage.

Marriage. He can’t wait.

**Night 7**

The service is a joyous one. Everyone brings their hanukkiyah and lights them together, under the direction of the rabbi, an older fellow named Mayvin. He tells the story of the rebellion of the Maccabees and the reclamation of the temple with such enthusiasm and a certain degree of comic relief that has the entire congregation enraptured. Everyone laughs right where he wants them to, tears up when he wants them to, and applauds when he wants them to.

Every time Mikleo’s attended this synagogue, he’s always awed by this man. He thinks Sorey would like him, and would really like to get into semantical debates with him about the accuracies of the details he flourishes, and that thought makes him chuckle.

He’s almost sad to return the kippah he’d borrowed from them, as it signifies a departure. But Eizen and Zaveid wear theirs out, and that makes Mikleo feel like the night isn’t quite ending, even though he hasn’t seen either of them take them off.

They begin their walk back to the Reaper’s Dozen. It’s probably thirty minutes from the synagogue, which is only a little bit longer than he’s used to back in Elysia. The air is chilly but still, which is perfect for walking with lit candles.

“It’s cold,” Edna says in her usual deadpan voice. Mikleo looks to her and raises an eyebrow. He’s about to make a comment about how she should’ve brought a sweater, when Eizen hands Zaveid their hanukkiyah, removes his jacket, and passes it to her.

Edna takes it without comment and puts it on. It’s way too big on her, like she stole it from a giant, and Mikleo stares, stunned by how silently that exchange happened, at the way Eizen just knew what she wanted and the way Edna was expecting him to.

Zaveid chortles. Mikleo looks back to him and tries to scowl, but it’s a bit ridiculous to pretend to be upset. “I know exactly what you’re feeling right now,” Zaveid says, snickering a little. “When I first met these two, I thought it was _creepy_. Like they’re twins, but born a decade apart.”

Mikleo chuckles, and Eizen takes the hanukkiyah back. “It’s not weird,” he says, in almost the same deadpan Edna is known for. “It’s just what happens when you’ve known each other your whole life.”

“Or almost all of it,” Edna adds as she zips up the midnight-black jacket. Mikleo shakes his head, and Edna scowls, and hers actually looks genuine.

“Eizen, remember that first time  I went out to dinner with you and Edna?” Zaveid asks, his grin growing wider. “Remember how she asked for a bite of _my_ food and you just — just switched _your_ plate with hers?”

“She only asks to try other people’s food if she doesn’t like her own,” Eizen replies. Mikleo glances to Edna, but she just shrugs. Neither of them seem particularly irritated by the direction of the conversation, and Mikleo wonders how often they’ve talked about this that they just let it roll off their backs.

“I _do_ think that’s a bit weird,” Mikleo says with a small grin. Zaveid turns and meets his eyes, and his grin turns near cruel as he says:

“Oh, you haven’t heard _anything_.”

Zaveid spins anecdotes of Eizen and Edna’s odd but kind of cute relationship, nearly making them sound like the stereotype of the ‘creepy twins’ despite their age difference. The remaining minutes until they reach the Reaper’s Dozen fly by. They go inside and into the apartment above, where Eizen takes over as they set their hanukkiyot by the window, reminding Zaveid of an embarrassing incident in which Zaveid called Eizen by Edna’s name nearly a year into their relationship. Zaveid scoffs in that way he does when he’s faux-offended, and Eizen smirks and brings up another, and another.

If these two were other people, Mikleo might think one of them was going to be sleeping on the couch tonight. Instead, Zaveid takes Eizen’s telling of embarrassing stories as a challenge, and brings up one time Eizen went a full lunch rush with a milk mustache. They shoot back and forth, everyone now sitting on cushions near the windows in the glow of the candlelight, until Edna brings up one that shuts the both of them down: the time she caught them making out on the couch. Mikleo laughs so hard he nearly chokes, and Eizen looks cowed while Zaveid grins.

“At least we weren’t doing something _else_ , huh?” Zaveid says, and Eizen turns to his husband and gives him a thorough glare. Edna makes a disgusted noise, and Mikleo laughs even harder.

The next time he looks at the time, it’s nearly one o’clock, and Mikleo sighs and gets to his feet. “I should get back to my room,” he starts to say, but immediately Eizen grabs his arm and pulls him back onto the floor.

“No,” he says. “Stay the night. I don’t want you walking around alone at this hour.”

Mikleo turns to Eizen, and he raises an eyebrow. “I’m not a child—”

“Yes, you are,” Eizen says without missing a beat. “You’re no older than Edna. Besides, what kind of host would I be if I let you leave? Stay the night. You don’t have any exams to study for, and I’m absolutely certain you have sleep you need to catch up. That’s what finals do to kids like you. So you’re staying.”

“The pull-out is pretty comfortable,” Edna adds, looking over at the couch and pointedly not at Mikleo. “Probably more comfortable than that slab you call a bed.”

“You’ve never even sat on my bed,” Mikleo says, furrowing his eyebrows at her.

Edna glances back at him, raising her own. “I don’t have to,” she replies. “One can tell it’s hard as stone just by looking at it.”

“C’mon, kid,” Zaveid chuckles. “Indulge us. Let Eizen play Mother Hen. He doesn’t get to play it with people other than Edna that often.”

“You don’t get to play it very often, either,” Eizen says, looking at Zaveid. Zaveid blinks and looks almost stunned, like he wasn’t expecting Eizen to say that, and then he glances away, scratching at his cheek. Is he _blushing_? Did he not expect to get called out like that?

Mikleo sighs and waves a hand. “All right, fine,” he says. “I’ll stay the night. But only because the lot of you are insisting.”

Eizen and Zaveid let out a cheer and high-five, before they get up to make the futon. Edna rolls her eyes, bids everyone good night, and heads to her own room. While they do that, Mikleo slips out his phone.

Sorey’s been texting him, it looks like; Mikleo responded to the ones he sent before shul, but he’s texted him after, as well.

Sent at 1:10. _Just got out of my last final. So glad it’s over._

Received at 1:12. _Wish I could call you to tell you how proud I am of you!_

Received at 1:18. _Just wanted to remind you that I love you. Sorry again about letting someone else try my challah, but I just wanted to clarify. I only let Gramps try it, because I wanted it to be good when you got to try it. That’s all, I swear._

Sent at 1:20. _Wait, Gramps is the one you let try it? You could’ve just said that. I thought you meant you’d been sharing results with half the town before I’d get to try it._

Received at 1:23. _No way!! You’ve always been with me when I cook, so I still kind of wanted to do that even if you’re eight hours away! I just wanted your wait to be worth it. But I forgot that you like being part of the mess-ups too, yeah?_

Sent at 1:25. _Yeah, I really do. Thanks for clarifying Sorey, I feel a bit better._

Received at 1:26 _. No problem! [Heart emoji, heart emoji, heart-eyes emoji, blowing-kiss winky face.] I should’ve been clearer when I told you about it last time. I love you Mik!_

Sent at 1:26. _Love you too, Sorey. [Blowing-kiss emoji.]_

Sent at 1:26. _It’s not fair that I can’t make a cute nickname from your name._

Received at 1:27. _It’s totally fair to me! [Laughing emoji, kissing emoji, heart emoji, heart emoji, heart emoji.]_

Sent at 1:28. _You nerd._

Received at 1:29. _[Laughing emoji.] That’s the pot calling the kettle black, isn’t it!_

Sent at 1:30. _I’m heading over to Eizen and Edna’s now for a few hours before shul, and knowing how this synagogue does things, I’ll probably get a chance to text you tomorrow._

Received at 1:31. _That’s fine with me! [Heart emoji.] Have a blast, Mikleo. I love you!! I can’t wait to see you on Sunday! [Heart-eyes emoji.]_

Sent at 1:35. _I can’t wait either. [Heart-eyes emoji.]_

And then, after shul, there were new messages awaiting him.

Received at 8:40. _Man, I love Natalie’s retelling, but Mason did one today for the kids there using puppets, and it was kind of cool. Like, really cool. [Star of David emoji.]_

Received at 8:45. _Mason says hi! [Wave emoji.]_

Received at 8:50. _Kyme and Natalie say hi! [Wave emoji.]_

Received at 8:52. _Okay, everyone keeps telling me to say hi for them, so just assume everyone in Elysia is saying hi, all at once. [Wave emoji, wave emoji, wave emoji.] Everyone really misses you! [Heart emoji, heart emoji, heart emoji.]_

Received at 9:30. _I really miss you, too. [Crying emoji.]_

Received at 9:45. _I know you’re probably having tons of fun! [Heart emoji.] I love you! I wish I could kiss you right now._

Received at 10:30. _Heading to bed now. I’ll text you in the morning, but good night!_

Sent at 1:10. _Only just now heading to bed. Everyone was telling stories, and it was really in the spirit of the holiday. I’ll tell you more about it when I call you tomorrow. I really miss you too. Hope you’re sleeping well. Good night._

**Morning 7**

Mikleo wakes up to the sounds of conversation and the smell of warm, sugary bread. As he sits upright on the futon, blinking sleep from his eyes, he recognizes four low voices coming from the kitchen.

Wait, four? There were only three others here when he went to sleep.

Mikleo pushes the blanket off of him and gets to his feet, turning to face the kitchen. Eizen is cooking something on the stovetop, his back to him. Zaveid is pulling a carton of something out of the fridge. Edna is sitting on the countertop watching them. And then there's another figure standing to the side, a young woman with sandy blonde hair up in a high ponytail.

Oh, no. Mikleo's mind spins for a moment as he starts to think — why is the _TA_ here? Did he fail the final? Is she here to talk about the project? He thought — he'd been _more_ than confident in his work, and that of his partners, why is she _here_ —

Edna sighs, and immediately Mikleo's gaze snaps to meet hers. She's watching him with a smirk on her face, though Mikleo can't comprehend why. “He's awake,” she announces. “Finally. You're the last one up, your highness.” And with that, everyone turns to face him. Including Alisha.

Mikleo is suddenly very aware of how his clothes are several sizes too big; Eizen lent him some old pajamas, and Mikleo's face turns pink. “Morning,” he mumbles, reaching for the pile of folded clothes he left on an arm of the couch.

“Good morning,” Alisha replies, glancing away as if Mikleo were in his underwear, as if he deserved some sort of modesty in this state. She probably means well, but it only heightens the embarrassment he's feeling.

“Go change, kid,” Zaveid says with a small grin on his face. When Mikleo glances to him, he notices Eizen has already turned back to the stove. “Then I'll tell you about the surprise. Oh, and Eizen’s making French toast!”

“Out of yesterday's challah,” Eizen adds. Even though he can't see his face, Mikleo can hear a smirk in his voice. “It'll be better than the surprise, which trust me, is saying a lot for my French toast.”

_“Eizen,”_ Alisha huffs, sounding as if she's scolding him, but Mikleo ducks out to the bathroom before he can catch any more of the conversation. When the door shuts behind him, he takes a deep, slow breath, calming himself.

After all, he reminds himself as he gets dressed in his clothes from yesterday, Alisha isn't just the TA from his history course. She's most likely here at Lailah’s bidding. But…

Why would Lailah even need her here? On a Saturday morning, no less?

When he emerges from the bathroom, Eizen has plated the French toast and is waving a spatula at Zaveid. “You're eating eggs by the forkful!” He's hissing, and Zaveid snickers, fork still in his mouth. “You're being incredibly rude — we have _guests!”_

“Who are totally fine with me eating off the pan,” Zaveid says, and he takes his fork out of his mouth to reach for the eggs again.

Eizen snatches the fork from his hands. “I'm confiscating this,” he says sternly. “You will have to eat French toast with your bare hands.”

Zaveid laughs, a bright, clear sound like a bell. And it's moments like these, Mikleo thinks as he watches them, that you know they're in love.

At the table, after prayers are said and everyone is permitted to dig in, Alisha clears her throat. “I've come here in order to extend and invitation to you, Mikleo,” she says with a smile. “From Lailah and I. How far is Elysia from here?”

Mikleo blinks, fork halfway to his mouth. He stares at Alisha, who only smiles pleasantly and blinks in response. As if the question might in fact be related to her ‘invitation.’

“Um.” Mikleo swallows and sets the fork down. “Six hours, maybe seven on a bad day.” He'd made the drive with Gramps and Sorey twice: once to visit, once to move. “Why?” he asks slowly. He doesn't want to get his hopes up, but his heart picks up the pace anyway.

Alisha’s smile remains peaceful and sincere and innocent. “And what time does the sun set today?” She continues.

Mikleo's heart skips a beat. “At about five-thirty. Alisha?”

Now her smile twitches up, like she's trying not to break out into a wide grin. “So if you were to go to Elysia, what is the latest you would leave in order to make it there by sundown?”

“Probably between ten-thirty and eleven,” Mikleo responds, blood rushing in his ears as he stares at her. “Alisha.”

She grins now, wide and cheery. “And if I told you that it's eight-thirty now, and that Lailah and I could be ready to take you home in an hour?”

_“Alisha.”_ When Mikleo speaks now, he speaks firmly, with more intensity than he means to. “Alisha, this better not be as hypothetical as your words make it sound.”

She giggles. Mikleo's mind is racing. Would he really not have to wait until tomorrow to get picked up? Could he really, _possibly,_ be home for at least the final night of Hanukkah?

“It isn't,” Alisha says with a grin. “Consider this our Hanukkah gift.”

Mikleo jumps to his feet. “I-I still have packing I need to do,” he stutters. He can see Sorey _tonight!_ “I need to do that now —”

A firm hand on his shoulder forces him back into his seat. Mikleo balks for a moment, stunned, and turns to see Eizen gazing at him with the most somber expression he's ever seen on him.

“Eat your breakfast,” he says gravely. “It is the most important meal of the day.”

“And he wasn’t lying when he said it's better than the surprise,” Zaveid adds with a grin.

Mikleo is understanding more and more the kind of sibling Eizen likely is to Edna. So Mikleo sighs, turns to her — Edna only looks at him with a half smile and a shrug, as if to say _‘see what I have to put up with?’_ — and finally takes his first bite of the challah French toast.

And he lets out a pleased little moan, closing his eyes briefly as he savors the taste. Eizen smirks and shakes his head, looking back at the food in front of them.

“Told you.”

**Night 8**

The drive is tortuously long. Of course it is; it’s one of the longest road trips he’s ever been on. Last time he made this trip, Gramps and Sorey were with him. Now they’re at the end of it. _Sorey_ is at the end of it. He keeps telling himself this, as if it makes the drive quicker instead of slower.

Urban landscapes pass as they hit a highway that stretches for miles. It almost looks like they’re in the country, except that there are plenty of cars, even if the buildings are sparse.

Alisha tries to distract him with conversation — mostly topics that were covered in the history course he took. It ranges from mildly effective, like when Alisha and Lailah dominate a conversation about medieval affairs and courtiers, to a heated, involved debate. The debate began with idle discussion of Inominat’s reign, and evolved into a philosophical argument about whether Maotelus’s revolt was either justified _or_ ultimately successful. That one went on for an hour, with Lailah attempting to act as intermediary.

Mikleo thought he won that one, but he could tell that Alisha was sparing glances to her girlfriend in the rearview mirror behind his back, too courteous to openly do so in front of him.

Mikleo also spends some time flipping through books, but the more time goes on, the harder he finds to concentrate on anything else but just one thought:

_I get to see Sorey again. I get to see his face again. I’ll get to touch him again, and hold him, and hear his laugh with a clarity that a computer can’t recreate._

He texts Sorey as much as he can throughout the drive, and for some reason he keeps this quiet. A part of him can’t wait to see the look on Sorey’s face when Mikleo shows up at the door; for once, Sorey’s not going to have to wait through a road trip to see him again.

And then, after what seems like ages, Alisha takes a familiar exit and Mikleo sits upright. It’s not the first exit she’s taken — they’ve stopped several times for either bathroom breaks or to get something to eat — but Mikleo knows this area. He’s restless despite how many times he’s stretched his legs over the past day, but he can’t help it. It’s nearly four. There’s at least an hour and a half, maybe two hours until sundown, which means Mikleo’s going to get to do _everything_.

He absolutely can’t _wait!_

By the time they’ve reached Elysia, Mikleo’s had all the books and things he’d taken out of his bag packed back into it. A bit haphazard, which is his own fault, but he can’t withhold his excitement. The traffic has diminished greatly, given that most of Elysia’s residents don’t go anywhere for the holidays, but when they pull up to Mikleo’s house, there’s a car parked next to the driveway. Mikleo’s heart picks up speed; that’s Sorey’s car, no question about it.

“Well—”

Mikleo’s opened the door and shut it before Alisha can even begin. He thinks he hears laughter, but it’s hard to hear over the blood rushing in his ears. He’s only got his backpack slung over his shoulder but he hurries to the front door, nearly tripping, and he bangs on it three times before he remembers the doorbell.

Footsteps behind him signal Alisha and Lailah joining him at the door, and the sound of wheels against pavement indicate they’ve taken his suitcase out for him. Mikleo hardly cares, staring at the door with wide eyes, his breath coming shorter as anticipation rises.

He can’t hear anything on the other side. His breath catches, and he forgets how to breathe; and then the door opens.

Sorey stands in the threshold. He’s wearing a plaid button-up and jeans beneath a white apron with a brown trim. His sleeves are rolled up to just above his elbows, and his apron is absolutely covered with flour. He’s even got some on his brow. His eyes are wide, his eyebrows are raised, his jaw is open. Mikleo’s backpack falls from his shoulders. Sorey’s clearly searching for words.

Mikleo doesn’t need words.

“Mik—”

He’s already kissing him. Hands holding Sorey’s face, his jaw, pulling him in close. He tastes like butter and challah. Then Sorey’s arms wrap around his waist, and he presses Mikleo up against him. Like this, so close that they share the same space and the same air, Mikleo begins to tremble, overwhelmed with relief and with _love_.

It’s really been too long.

“I love you,” he finally whispers against Sorey’s lips, and he realizes his eyes are watering. Oh, what’s wrong with him? “Sorey, I love you.”

“I love you, too,” Sorey says, his voice just as soft and warm. When Mikleo meets his eyes, he sees a grin stretched across Sorey’s face from ear to ear. His cheeks are visibly dark. It makes Mikleo feel soft and warm, too. “What are you doing here? I thought Gramps and I were going to pick you up tomorrow!”

Mikleo remembers that there are two people waiting to enter behind him and he flushes, too. He looks behind them to see Lailah and Alisha; he’s not sure whether to be surprised or relieved that they’re only looking at them with fond expressions on their face. “Uh, some of the friends I made offered to drive me here,” he says. “This is Lailah, and this is her girlfriend, Alisha.”

Alisha smiles and bows her head briefly. “Mikleo has told us a lot about you, Sorey,” she says. “Do you mind if we come in for a bit?”

Sorey lets go of Mikleo, though his hands linger at his waist. Mikleo feels pleasantly warm as he lets his hands drop from Sorey’s face, though he is careful to stay close enough to not lose the touch. It’s been so _long_ since they’ve touched like this.

“Of course,” Sorey says, that grin not ever leaving. “Please! I can’t thank you enough for bringing him home to me so much sooner!” As they enter, Sorey gestures to the living room. “Take a seat, we’re making sufganiyot right now if you’d like any. Gramps has challah in the oven, it’ll be ready in an hour or so.”

“‘We?’” Lailah asks as the two of them step in and shut the door behind them. She sets the suitcase against the door, and Mikleo remembers that he dropped his backpack, too.

And before another word can be said, a great, thunderous voice booms across the house: _“Mikleo, is that you?”_

Mikleo beams, big and wide, and he taps Sorey’s shoulder. “Let me go say hi,” he says, and Sorey only chuckles.

“I’ll entertain your friends,” he says with a wink. Mikleo knows that means he’s going to hound them with all sorts of questions, and he’s not the least bit annoyed. It’s endearing, and Mikleo reaches up to press a kiss to Sorey’s cheek before he goes into the kitchen to see Gramps again.

Gramps is indeed in the kitchen. Mikleo takes solace in the familiarity of everything here: the batteries from the smoke alarm set in a small bowl on the counter, far from the cooking taking place; the smell of fried dough and sugary berries that waft from the deep-fryer; the way the light makes Gramps’s bald spot shine. This is the definition of home.

When Gramps looks up to greet him, his eyes search him head to toe. Mikleo looks down at himself, and feels himself flush again. There’s flour all over him.

“I wondered what was keeping Sorey so long,” Gramps says with a chuckle. His voice is even and slow, deliberate. “I’m glad that you’re back, Mikleo. Welcome home.”

Mikleo smiles, and he feels like his eyes are watering again. It’s silly, to start crying when he’s finally home again; it’s not as if he never talked to Gramps, or never saw Sorey. And even then, he’s only been away from them for less than six months.

But it’s as if he was a single piece missing from the larger puzzle. Here, he belongs.

“Thank you,” he says, his voice tight.

Gramps nods. If he notices the way Mikleo sounds like he’s choking on tears, he doesn’t say it. “Well, get your apron on,” he says as if Mikleo hasn’t been gone for months. “Come help me with this last batch of sufganiyot. Then we’re making latkes.”

Mikleo grins and does he’s told. His apron is right where he left it in the cupboard, and he slips it on, tying it behind him with practiced ease. It’s been ages since he had the opportunity to _cook_ again. “How many people are expected tonight?”

“The usual,” Gramps replies, and Mikleo nods. “How did you even get here?” he asks, raising an eyebrow at him.

“Some friends offered to drive me,” Mikleo replies, and he smiles a little. “I think they mentioned they’re staying at a hotel tonight and driving back up in the morning—”

“ _No_ , they’re not!” Gramps’s incredulous voice cuts through everything, and Mikleo blinks as Gramps all but storms into the other room. “You two!” His voice is loud enough that Mikleo can hear him in the kitchen, and Mikleo grins as he peeks in. Lailah and Alisha look startled, maybe a little scared, as Gramps interrupts their conversation.

“Cancel the hotel!” Gramps commands, before he’s even introduced himself. Mikleo makes his way out into the room, and he and Sorey share a long, meaningful look. ‘Gramps is at it again.’ Wow, but how long has it been since he managed to share a look like that? “You’re staying here, in our guest bedroom.”

“Oh, we — we wouldn’t dare impose—” Lailah begins to say.

“Nonsense,” Gramps replies firmly, cutting her off. “I’ll cover your gas expenses, as well. It’s the least that can be done to repay you for your kindness.”

“Wait,” Sorey says, and he sounds more hesitant than he should. Mikleo furrows his brow at him, and then Sorey voices a very real concern. “Would… you prefer I not spend the night tonight, Gramps?”

Right. Sorey usually takes that bedroom.

“Share Mikleo’s room, for all I care,” Gramps says, sniffing shortly as he does. Then he turns around, waving his hand. “Now come on, Sorey, Mikleo; I’ve probably burnt the sufganiyot by now, thanks to this nonsense. Get in the kitchen and help me while we let these young ladies relax.”

Alisha giggles, and Mikleo feels his face warm at the thought of sharing a bed with Sorey. He glances to his boyfriend, the man who’s _basically_ his fiance-slash-husband, and sees Sorey is flushing too. Their eyes meet, and Sorey offers a small grin.

He reaches over and his fingers thread in Mikleo’s, and he gives him a gentle squeeze. “Exciting,” he murmurs, for Mikleo’s ears alone. Mikleo shivers at the breath on his ear, and Sorey chuckles before he lets go and follows Gramps to the kitchen.

Mikleo takes a moment to compose himself before he follows suit.

* * *

 

That night, longer after the hanukkiyot have been lit, long after the children have taught Alisha and Lailah how to play dreidel (though Mikleo’s sure they can’t actually read the Hebrew), long after every scrap of food has been devoured, long after all the Elysian guests have left and they’ve cleaned up every sign of activity, Sorey and Mikleo lie in bed in their nightclothes and play catch-up.

It’s silly, because they’ve been consistently talking while Mikleo’s been gone, but Mikleo enjoys it anyway. Sorey strokes his hair and Mikleo pets his chest as they talk, in low tones so as to not wake anyone up. Hours must pass, because when they’re done, Mikleo glances out of the window and he sees snow.

_Snow_.

He gasps at the sight of it. Sorey responds by curling around him, holding him close. He hums, and then Sorey whispers in his ear again.

“I hid a loaf in here earlier,” he whispers, and he’s grinning again when Mikleo meets his gaze. “One that I’m pretty sure is perfection, but I haven’t tried it yet. I made it earlier today. Do you want to have some before bed?”

Mikleo laughs and looks to him. “I thought you’d forgotten,” he says, and Sorey only grins wider. “What does that even have to do with _snow_?”

“You haven’t had snow yet, right?” Sorey says with a shrug. “Hanukkah’s not quite complete without snow. Not to me, anyway. And you know what else Hanukkah is incomplete without?”

“Your cooking,” Mikleo says before Sorey can answer his own question. And Sorey blinks, clearly startled, and then he giggles.

“You’re so flattering,” he all but sings, but he pulls away from him in order to reach under the bed. Mikleo watches as Sorey retrieves a wrapped loaf; wrapped the way Gramps does when Gramps wants to give it to someone, but it looks less well-done. Like Sorey did it himself, and did it hurriedly.

Mikleo sits upright as Sorey unwraps it, and Mikleo’s pleasantly surprised to see the braided bread already sliced. Sorey picks the first piece and hands it to him, and then he holds up his own, as if it’s Shabbat and they’re saying a blessing. And Mikleo holds up his as well, and they sing the blessing together:

“Baruch Atah Adonai, Eloheinu Melech haolam, Hamotzi lechem min haaretz.”

And when Mikleo takes the first bite, it practically melts in his mouth. He holds back a small groan, pressing his fingers to his lips, and Sorey hums. When Mikleo glances back up, Sorey is watching him intently.

“This—” Mikleo takes a moment to swallow the rest he has in his mouth, and he laughs a little. “Sorey, you’ve outdone yourself.” He reaches forward and takes another slice, and Sorey does as well.

“I was so worried you’d hate it,” Sorey says quietly as he bites into another slice. “I’m really glad you like it.”

“Honestly, I think this is the best challah I’ve ever tasted.” And at that thought, Mikleo grins, remembering something Eizen had said, and he turns to him. “Hey, Sorey?”

“Hmm?”

“What do you think about making challah French toast?”


End file.
